Commuter Spy: Lynch mob

Our Man On The Train experiences first hand the power of a commuter's
rage

Last Wednesday evening, I came as close as I’ve ever been to a lynch mob. I wasn’t the victim. I was part of the mob, and I’m not afraid to say it.

Some background is required. I had just lost my season ticket. It is all too easily done. The ticket comes in a shiny, plastic wallet that seems designed to slip out of hands and pockets; the environment is normally overcrowded; and you are obliged to put the ticket in and out of your pocket several times a day.

They charged me £10. This was annoying enough, considering the eyewatering sum I’d paid for the ticket (£4,372). But then, without altering the deadpan expression on his face, the man behind the counter informed me that if I lost the ticket again, it would not be replaced.

The cheek of it! After the money I’d paid! The credit card companies manage to issue a free replacement, why can’t the train companies? But there was nothing I could do. Those are the rules, he said, with infuriating insouciance.

So by evening, I was already fuming. I just wanted to get home. My replacement ticket weighed heavily in my pocket, and I couldn’t stop fingering it to make sure it was still there.

Eventually, we arrived. The aisle was full of people queuing to get off, and I was looking forward to a curative evening spent with a bottle of Pinot Grigio. But the worst was yet to come. Before we had all disembarked, the doors of the train closed, trapping us inside. As one, we surged forward and pounded on the button and windows. But the train moved off, taking us down towards the coast.

I wanted to pull the emergency break, but I knew this would cause an even worse delay. We marched down the carriage and accosted the Guard, a weasel-faced man with a little beard.

“Was it you who closed the doors?” demanded a smartly dressed woman with leadership qualities.

“Everyone else managed to disembark in time,” he replied, snidely.

“How dare you?” came a loud, booming voice. “That’s just bloody rude. If you’ve made a mistake at least have the guts to apologise! You should lose your job for this.” A few seconds later, I realised that the voice was mine.

Suddenly, the Guard became aware of the intensity of our anger, and the extent to which we outnumbered him. He turned tail and disappeared. Enraged as we were, we did not follow him.

In a dejected cluster, the would-be lynch mob got off at the next station, crossed the bridge over the tracks, and caught a train back in the other direction. We finally arrived almost an hour and a half late, in a foul mood. I took my new ticket out of my pocket and slipped it through the machine, marvelling at our extraordinary restraint.